


With me your shroud unweave

by Sovin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Artist Grantaire, Asexual Character, Asexual Grantaire, Canon Era, Established Relationship, M/M, Relationship Discussions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 14:48:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1782862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sovin/pseuds/Sovin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras wonders why Grantaire, with all his stories (even if they are exaggerated), hasn't asked for more in their relationship, because he doesn't think he'd be opposed. They have a discussion they probably should have already had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With me your shroud unweave

**Author's Note:**

> The usual disclaimer.
> 
> Taking on the tropes in a slightly different way, with gray-a/demisexual Enjolras and sex-repulsed asexual Grantaire. Mostly just conversations and fluff. Fairly pointless and self indulgent, but I wanted to try my hand at canon-era again.
> 
> Anyway! Feel free to come say hello [over on tumblr](http://www.sovinly.tumblr.com); I'm always happy to chat.

It was no longer rare for them to carve out moments together where they could, stealing the long evenings from their busy hours even if only to work together with an ease that only deepened with the passing of time.

Enjolras, though, had finished his last bit of work an hour before, and had been content to leave it for the night, watching Grantaire wring the last hints of light out into his sketchbook. The artist was bent over his paper, hair obscuring his face as his hand moved in easy little movements, concentration lining his limbs and compacting him, oblivious to all else.

Though he would never, perhaps, reach beautiful in the eyes of much, Grantaire’s face had eased with quiet happiness, beauty in the curve of his mouth and the lines by his eyes, the defensive hunch and brash swagger both lessening in favor of a confident fighter’s, dancer’s grace they had previously hidden. Enjolras found him captivating, allowing himself the luxury to trace the lines of Grantaire’s fingers with his eyes, lingering over the muscles of his neck, and fixing on his mouth, lower rip worried red in thought.

Eventually, Grantaire gently smudged shadows into being with the tip of a finger before he softened, glancing up and catching Enjolras’ gaze, face coloring slightly.

“You should have informed me you had finished,” he chided without bite, setting side his paper and pencil, absently rubbing at a smear along his hand. “We have little enough time as it is; I would hate to leave you bored during it.”

“I was not,” he replied, shifting closer. “Might I not enjoy watching you at work? You are lovely when lost in contemplation.”

“Sing, O muse, but not the praises of the storyteller,” Grantaire said, attempting a scowl that was betrayed by the deepening flush of his cheeks, and he sighed when Enjolras took his hand, drawing it up to kiss his knuckles with a chaste affection. “Do not tease me, Enjolras.”

He arched a brow with a dry look, clasping his hand more tightly. “You know I rarely tease, and would not about this. Have you finished for the night?”

“I have.”

“May I look?” he asked, nodding at the sketchbook that Grantaire usually kept so guarded.

There was a moment of hesitant uncertainty before he nudged it over with a false nonchalance. “If you insist. There is little of worth there, and it has been some time since I have done much of note.”

“Thank you all the same,” Enjolras replied, fingertips brushing against Grantaire’s hand before he took up the book, touch delicate as he opened the book about halfway through. It was easy to see Grantaire’s moods reflected, quick sketches of architecture and people in motion alternating with heavily detailed renditions of the same. There were even a few anatomy studies, the models’ features only hinted at with shadows but the lines and curves of their bodies attentively, thoughtfully rendered.

When he finally glanced over at Grantaire, the man was watching him with cautious eyes, as though awaiting a pronouncement. Enjolras smiled, little more than a slight curve of his lips.

“These are lovely. Would you share them with me more often? I admit, often beauty does little to hold my eye and my education in art is far from refined, but I enjoy looking at them. You draw with such love for detail.”

Grantaire snorted quietly, but he looked more embarrassed and flattered than amused or offended. “You are too biased, but if it pleases you to look upon my meager scribblings, the privilege is yours.”

Enjolras shot him a look, never liking to hear the faintly bitter self deprecation that was never meant in as much jest as Grantaire liked to pretend, but did not push, only smiled a touch in thanks and returned his attention to the sketches.

“I am nearly surprised,” he said thoughtfully after a long moment as he brushed his fingertips on the outside edges of the heavy paper, studying one of the sketches of a nearly nude model, breaking the silence, “that you have not yet asked for more than we have done.”

Beside him, Grantaire hummed noncommittally, some anticipation or perhaps nervousness stilling his features and faint movements, fingers ceasing their near silent tapping against the table, but his attention focused sharply.

Taking a soft breath, Enjolras continued with determination, feeling his face heat a little with a sudden undercurrent of apprehension. “I would not mind if you did.”

Beside him, Grantaire tensed, subtle but noticeable. Brow furrowing, Enjolras looked up at him, sitting a little straighter with concern. His eyes were unreadable, but he was taut and his mouth had set in a deep frown, though it did not seem to be with anger.

Worried, he reached for him, his own frown deepening. “Grantaire, have I offended? It was not my intent-”

“No. I… no, you have not.” Grantaire shook his head and flinched away from Enjolras' hand on his shoulder, attempting to disguise it as moving to rise, starting to pace the length of the room once he had, something frantic to his motions.

"Grantaire?" Enjolras repeated, mouth bowing in a quiet frown as he stood, hands folded behind his back, blue eyes softened with disquiet and worry as he watched him turn sharply on his heel.

He went to run his fingers through his hair but they stuck in the mess of curls, and he let out a sigh somewhere between frustrated and upset, then stopped. He looked at Enjolras only a moment before he dropped his gaze, but it was enough for Enjolras to see the unhappiness and uncertainty crumpling the lines of his face.

"What on all the earth is wrong?" he asked, confused, crossing the space between them in two steps and extending his hands toward Grantaire, palms up, a silent plea for him to reach back.

Grantaire's hands came up a few inches, as though without thought or consent, before he drew them back again, hand curling in a loose fist as he pressed it to his mouth, turning his head to angle his face away. "Enjolras, I cannot..."

"My friend, my love," Enjolras said softly, reaching out again and taking Grantaire's upper arms in hand, fingers curling loosely around the muscles there, firm enough to steady him but nowhere near bruising, waiting until Grantaire looked up at him. "What can you not? I would have you speak freely with me."

He hesitated, tongue running over his lower lip, eyes flicking away, clearly nervous. Grantaire drew himself up, just a little, and seemed to gather his courage, gaze distraught as he finally met Enjolras' eyes. "I feel I have deceived you. Enjolras, you must know my tales of conquests were nothing more, and greatly exaggerated; you all have known I spoke false. And yet... There is more. I had no interest in their company. That is not to say that I do not desire yours, far from it, and you must know I spoke the truth plain - I understand nothing but love and liberty. A libertine, yes, but there are... certain pleasures of the flesh which not only do hold not my attention but repulse me. They do not in others, who are welcome to the embraces of Eros! For myself... I shudder, I twist, I gag, the very thought strikes in me an aversion as great as yours, I think, to injustice.

“Understand, I have the greatest of love for you. I would that I might press our hands ceaselessly, and wake to watch consciousness come upon you slowly, and steal out these quiet and precious moments by candlelight. I thought, perhaps, my love for you might transcend that distaste for the most intimate of touches, that I could, for you, offer up all of myself, but Enjolras, I cannot. I cannot, even for you; the very thought drives me to illness. I would that I could give you all that you ask, but not even of that am I capable, unable even of doing you well in this."

His words were plaintive and his eyes troubled, mouth creased in worry and eyes so full of shame and sorrow that it was painful to see, the way he held himself so tensed for a blow or reproach and yet with so much remorse, so apologetic for the words he spoke.

"Peace, Grantaire," Enjolras said softly, before he could start up again. His mind flooded with questions, the large part of which he discarded immediately as too invasive or too insensitive, though some he might revisit, but first desiring to offer reassurance. He shifted, cupping the palm of his hand to the curve of Grantaire's jaw, tender and gentle, bending to kiss his forehead. "I would not ask you for that you would not give."

"Ah," he said, even softer, even as he tilted his head helplessly into Enjolras' touch. "... Then I have lost you?"

He tutted quietly, tipping Grantaire's face back toward his, and met his eyes with as much softness as he knew how. "You have not. Was that the reason you would not speak of this before?"

Shamed, he nodded, only barely holding Enjolras' gaze, still looking as though he expected to be cast aside even though there was a tentative, terrified hope in his open expression.

Enjolras sighed, pained. "Grantaire, R, have I not been earnest enough? I have meant it, when I have said that I would ask you for no more sacrifices. Certainly none like this. I have caused you enough pain, enough distress without this on top of it. And yet... you flinch. Why?"

"There are none who have taken such news so well as you," Grantaire said, a touch of dryness returning to his voice, eyes veiling. "If man is Apollo, I am Cassandra. Or I am Penelope, besieged by unwanted suitors who will always notice my weavings unraveling and excuses wearing thin."

"I would not ask that of you," Enjolras repeated, still not dropping his hand, half afraid Grantaire would look away if he did, half wanting to offer comfort as he could. "For Patria, I was celibate; it is no great trouble to me to continue to be so for you. I may drink myself dizzy on your charms and your affections well enough. I am content with you. But you must tell me what you will allow. The thought of bringing you to the point of illness distresses me."

Trembling, Grantaire closed his eyes, tentatively daring a chaste kiss to the heel of Enjolras’ hand, voice soft in the quiet room, hands curled loosely by his sides. “None of what we have done thus far has made me so. I enjoy kissing, such as it is, but only to the point that it begins to become something else; I am fickle, I am inconstant, I am arbitrary. I cannot give you a steady answer, and I fear it will not be enough.”

“You are enough,” Enjolras murmured, gently slipping his free hand down to reach for Grantaire’s, curling it around his fingers. “We have time; we may experiment, though I will leave off putting the results to paper. Only pull away if it starts to become too much, I would never begrudge you that, and will stop. We can figure it out together, can we not?”

Still seeming hesitant, Grantaire nodded, hold tightening a little on Enjolras’ hand. “I… Yes. You seem to take this very well and I know not what to make of it.”

“Have I not heard enough rejoinders for my own choices? I know well the cruel words that may be spoken to one as chooses to abstain,” he reminded him, bringing their joined hands up to kiss Grantaire’s. “I must imagine they cut deeper, if it is not a willful decision to ignore desire. I ask no more than for what you would willingly give. But… might I hold you?”

Grantaire’s mouth curled up at that, eyes sparking with an affectionate amusement, and it lightened his face enough to make fondness curl warmly in Enjolras’ chest. “I? I will never contest your arms around me. It is more than I would have ever thought to hope, you know that. And yet you ask!”

“And yet I ask,” Enjolras agreed, drawing Grantaire in against him and wrapping him up in his arms, lips brushing against his cheek as he embraced him warmly and almost fiercely. He tightened the arm pressed across Grantaire’s lower back, pressing him a little closer still, and that was enough for Grantaire to relax against him and hold back, not quite clinging even though his quiet sigh held a touch of relief and desperation.

At length, Enjolras pulled back, coaxing the other man into meeting his gaze once more.

“Do you doubt still that you are precious to me?” he murmured, fingertips trailing the line of his jaw. “I do not deny that the news was unexpected, but it is no disappointment. With all that you have given me, I could not ask for more.”

“I had thought, perhaps, that you were like I,” Grantaire admitted, with less shame and heaviness this time. “That this might not be a sacrifice for you. When you suggested otherwise, doubt seized. It lives at the back of my throat, waiting to arrest my breath and fog my mind; it is as potent as any drink, if harder to sleep off.”

Silent, Enjolras clasped Grantaire’s hands once more, reaching for an answer. “I have never had as much interest as others seemed to, and so it was hardly a sacrifice for my ideals, and even less of one to see you comfortable. You tempt me in ways that many do not – very well, your tongue tempts me with its cleverness, your mind with its cutting clarity, and your hands with their gentleness. What reasons have I to doubt your love?”

“You are steadfast as marble,” Grantaire said, a touch of teasing there, eyes softening with quiet adoration and with stunned relief. “Even in this you do not doubt! You know that I try?”

“I know,” he affirmed, with tender conviction. “Do not forget, we complement one another. If you must shore up your faith, I must soften my demeanor. I am trying, also.”

“I have noticed.” He gave Enjolras a soft and quiet smile, knuckles brushing across the line of his cheekbone. “You have succeeded very well. How am I to be bitter about the unbearable state of the world when Achilles himself would speak to me so softly?”

“Stop that,” he chided lightly, a faint flush of pink darkening his face. “I am a man, no more than you. Though I would not have you bitter, I much prefer your smile.”

Grantaire blushed deeply, scoffing a little and shaking his head, almost bashful even as he smiled. “Fiend, you seek to slay me with flattery, and will undoubtedly succeed.”

Enjolras smiled at that, amusement lightening his eyes. “I should hardly find you as endearing as I do.”

He just shook his head, a soft and open look on his face, smiling gently as he leaned up just a little. “May I kiss you?”

“Of course you may.” His brow arched up faintly, half dry, half genuinely uncertain, suddenly wary of stepping over bounds he had not known were there, of presuming where he was unwelcome. “Should I not be the one asking you?”

“Do not be absurd, Enjolras, that job is mine,” Grantaire said with exasperated affection, tipping Enjolras’ head down just enough to press their mouths together, kissing him softly and lingering for a long moment. “Thank you.”

“Set thanks aside,” Enjolras replied, leaning just a little into Grantaire’s touch, “and come sit beside me, if you will.”

“So I shall,” Grantaire agreed, but he let Enjolras coax him in for one more soft and subtle kiss.


End file.
